


Old Geezer

by orphan_account



Category: Dunkirk (2017), Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965), One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry meets a fascinating older gentleman with a twinkle in his eye, a story he wants to tell, and some handy magical powers.  Harry, fresh from his acting debut in Dunkirk, gets a taste of life in LuftStalag 13 under the guidance of the master safecracker and pickpocket known as Corporal Peter Newkirk. Some slash, more adventure.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Peter Newkirk/Harry Styles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

“I know he’s an old geezer, Louis, but he’s pretty interesting. He came backstage with his granddaughters, waving his Scotland Yard credentials.”

”Interesting how?” Louis grumbled. Harry was too naive about older men coming backstage. An 80 year old at a One Direction made no sense at all, even if he did have grandkids. And coming backstage and finding an excuse to talk to Harry Styles could mean only one thing. 

“Well, he was in the war,” Harry said as he laid in bed beside Louis. 

“Everyone that old was in the war, Harry,” Louis replied.

“Yeah, but he was a POW,” Harry said eagerly. Noticing Louis’s blank stare, he added. “A prisoner of war. In Germany.”

”Oh, so he _wasn’t_ in the war. He sat it out like a pansy,” Louis said.

”Pansy! Look who’s talking,” Harry replied, playfully swatting Louis at the precise location where his pansying behaviors were concentrated, and then petting him there sensuously.

“No, mate. He did some very interesting things. He said he saw me in _Dunkirk_ — and he was bloody well there! He wants to hear about making the flick and he’ll tell me what it was really like! We’re meeting up for dinner.”

”Don’t tell me. At his house?” Louis shook his head.

”Yeh. What? Is there something wrong with that?” Harry asked.

”No, no, of course not. Just bring your own lubricant unless you like old-school petrolatum, you twit.” 

Louis climbed back over Harry and started to kiss him senseless. A week’s run of reunion concerts in London had sounded a lot more fun and ... satisfying... before Harry decided to book dinner with a senior citizen.


	2. Chapter 2

His driver dropped Harry in front of a row house in fashionable Shoreditch. He waved the driver off. “Don’t wait. I’ll ring you up when I’m 30 minutes from leaving.” The driver nodded and pulled away.

Harry stood on the sidewalk, sizing up the residence. The place was neatly kept, set back from the busy street by a deep garden. Surrounding it were homes that had clearly been renovated recently as the neighborhood had been gentrified. The old geezer’s house could use a fresh coat and maybe some of the new windows designed to keep drafts out. But it looked respectable.

Harry crossed the narrow garden path that led to the front door and rapped.

He could hear the feet moving to the door—not shuffling exactly, but not speeding either. Well, he was old. Harry would have to be patient.

The old chap swung the door open and smiled brightly. He had one of those faces that was transformed by his smile. One minute he looked lost in thought and a bit grouchy. But the smile went straight to his green eyes, which sparkled, and took years off his appearance.

“Peter!” Harry said jovially, throwing his arms wide open. He was great with old folks — one of the best times of his life was when he worked alongside a crew of older women at the W. Mandeville bakery in Holmes Chapel.

“So good of you to invite me to dinner. There’s nothing better than a home-cooked meal!” he said cheerfully as Peter led his into the foyer.

“You might want to reserve judgment on that, lad,” Peter laughed. “You haven’t tried my cooking yet. Come on back, I’m just putting the Beef Wellington into the oven.

“Sounds fancy,” Harry grinned as he trailed Peter to a small but well equipped kitchen.

“It is. It makes a nice presentation. Even my mate from Paris will eat it when he comes to visit, and he has absolute disdain for all British food,” Peter laughed. “I make it with _foie gras_ for him, but I’ve found that we English prefer a wrapping of Parma ham and mustard. When I watched Gordon Ramsay making it that way, I thought, ‘that little bastard. He stole my recipe.’”

Peter tucked the baking dish into the oven. “There. Half an hour, 400 degrees or whatever it is in Celsius. I’ve never got used to that. I bought one of these thingummies you paste over the oven dial so you can think in Fahrenheit.”

“You’ll be in trouble if you go digital,” Harry observed.

Peter laughed. “That I will. Come on, lad, let’s sit in the lounge. Kitchen’s a bit hot.”

He led Harry back down the hallway and opened the double doors leading into a lived-in and spacious lounge. Photos of Peter’s children and grandchildren took up most of one wall. Several photos of a very pert and pretty young blonde were scattered about on tables and bookshelves, some alone, some with a young man. Harry realized it was Peter and his wife.

Peter saw Harry looking. “Rita’s her name. Lovely, eh?”

”Very lovely,” Harry said seriously. She was indeed. He looked around and noticed there were no pictures of her past her younger days. He looked quizzically at Peter.

”She was 44 when I lost her. Breast cancer. It was 1960. She’d waited for me during the war, you know. A lot of years when we should have been together.” He took the photo out of Harry’s hand and stroked a thumb across her face, then set it back down.

Harry did the math. Peter was older than he thought. Could he be? No, it didn’t make sense. But his wife would be over 100.

”How many kids did you have?”

”Six,” Peter said with a proud smile. “Simon, Robert, Veronica, Maeve, Christopher and Colin. Raised the lot of them on me own, here and in America.”

“America? Really.” Harry was genuinely surprised. People didn’t go to America and come back. They stayed.

“Yes, well, I was over there for a while, working quite closely with a general I’d worked under in the war. Came back here with him in the late 1970s and moved back in here. My home with Rita, you see. I’d leased it out.”

”Nice neighborhood,” Harry said.

”It wasn’t when we got here. Mind you, for an East End lad like me this place was a step up. But it was a gritty, rundown neighborhood. Bought the place for a song in 1950. I did a lot of the work myself.”

Peter sniffed the air. “That roast smells good. I love it when the pastry crisps. Can I offer you a drink, Harry? We’ve got about 10 minutes before I take it from the oven.” Peter moved toward a small bar cabinet and pulled out two glasses. A wee dram of whiskey?”

“I’m not a big drinker these days...” Harry demurred.

“A rock star who doesn’t drink? Fancy that,” Peter laughed.

“ ...but I’d do a bloody Mary.”

“Right, then. I’ve got mixers,” Peter said. He prepared two drinks and handed one to Harry. “Come on, sit,” he said, leading Harry to a pair of club chairs.

Harry put his drink down on a side table and noticed a photo of five men standing in front of a rough wooden building. “Is that you?” he asked, reaching out.

Peter was there in a flash, taking the photo in hand before Harry could get to it. He gulped, then said calmly. “That’s right. me and my mates at Luft Stalag 13. That’s Kinch, the Gov, me, LeBeau and Carter.” He smiled softly. “The best friends any man ever had. All gone now. I’m the last man standing.”

“The Gov?” Harry peered closer, the looked across the room. There. He thought he’d seen a few more photos of Peter with him. Looked like they were on holiday. Golf buddies, maybe.

”Colonel Robert E. Hogan, U.S. Army Air Force. Finest man I ever had the privilege to serve,” Peter said wistfully. His hand shook a little as he brought his drink to his lips. The picture was still in his hand.

”Let me see,” Harry said, touching the picture frame and letting a finger stray onto the photo itself.

That was when the everything went dark. Harry could feel the air whooshing around him, as if he was flying through a tunnel, with dirt and grime peppering him. Then he landed with a thump. He was on a sandy beach, sopping wet, in a British soldier’s uniform. And a much younger Peter Newkirk was staring down at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's backstory with Rita and his family--and his multi-year affair with Colonel Hogan--is the subject of my story "The Party Guests." It is still a work in progress.


End file.
